


Out of Control

by groaar



Series: Dysfunctional [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:22:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaar/pseuds/groaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris hates magic, all kind of magic. This hatred leads him to discover something unpleasant about himself. </p>
<p>This is a series that focuses on the relationship between Fenris and Anders. At this point there is little actual FenrisxAnders, but some subtle hinting can be found. The stories are snapshots, describing just one certain point in time, and so far they can be read as standalones. This one takes place sometime during Act I in the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He drifted in and out of consciousness, not fully aware of where he was or with whom or what went on around. Was he safe or should he be on his guard? Prepare for the worst? The elf couldn’t tell and he had no recollection of the events that had landed him in this situation. The only thing he knew was that it hurt, a lot. His body felt as if it was on fire.

He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey. A good thing, really, as even the shadow of a movement caused such excruciating pain – a burning, smarting agony – that the elf was afraid his body would be torn in pieces. Fenris couldn’t even muster the energy to open up his eyes, each eyelid feeling heavier than any greatsword he had ever wielded.  

A sudden surge of magic rushed through his blood. He could feel it as it nestled into his arteries and veins, how it irrupted even the smallest capillaries. Fenris could almost taste the foul taste of it on the tip of his tongue; the rotting, stigmatized, horrible taint of magic. The elf could feel his body jerking involuntarily as the lyrium burnt into his skin raged in protest at the unwelcome flow of unnatural power, however, this reaction did little to free him from the magic that held him now.

He hated magic with every fibre in his body.

Loathed it.

Magic was danger.

In his mind Fenris could see himself lying alone on cold stone flooring. His body was torn, mangled, his blood oozing out warm and hot, feeling slightly sticky against his cold skin. Danarius stood towering above him, laughing scornfully at his misery. What the elf felt at the sight could only be descried as contempt, for he knew the magister would not let him go to waste even though Fenris would have been ready to embrace death at this point. He had fought honourably – to protect a man he despised, yes, but honourably nonetheless – and this would be a warrior’s death. Alas, he was but a slave, lacking even the power to control his own span of life. Pitiful. Worthless.

Fenris knew this kind of magic all too well. Some may consider it a gift from the Gods, but to the elf healing magic was just as bad as any other kind. All magic, in the end, is destructive.

How many times had not this wretched force brought him back from the brink of death? How many times had not the man he detested more than any other acted as his saviour, as if he had been doing the elf a favour? Fenris had not counted, could not, but he had had enough. This time he was determined not to allow it.

In a last futile and hopeless attempt to flee whatever fait awaited him Fenris prepared to fight. With a tremendous exertion of power the slender elf pressed his arms towards the surface he was laying on, lunging upwards. Depleting his last reserves of stamina he let the lyrium covering his frame tap into its full power, and next thing he knew his fist was buried deep within the chest of his tormentor. A sudden rush of excitement swam through his mind as his fingers closed in on the small, hardworking organ. He could feel the heart, warm, beating and pulsating with life – but not for long. Slowly he tightened his grip, slowly because he wanted to savour this moment, wanted to see and remember Danarius’ anguished expression for eternity.

He slowly tilted his head upwards and found his vision to be rather cloudy. He couldn’t make out just quite who was standing in front of him; a man no doubt, but very unlike the Danarius that he had known. A surge of cold discomfort shot through his stomach. It had to be Danarius, it had to.

He could vaguely make out a pair of moving lips, as if his prosecutor was trying to speak, but Fenris couldn’t make out any words. The elf’s head was pounding with the echo of his own rapid heartbeats and his ears were ringing, ringing with a sound the silver haired could only guess was the lyrium’s.

His had wavered.

“ris…….bast……stop…” a voice invaded his mind; familiar yet one that he wasn’t particularly fond of.

For a moment or two Fenris froze completely, his arm still plunged through the chest of the man, his long fingers still wrapped around the heart. He could feel the strenuous muscle move, rhythmically, peacefully, but slower with every passing second. The elf found it oddly calming, and as the beat grew weaker so did the grip of hysteria on Fenris’ mind. Gradually realization dawned on him; he was not in Tevinter, and certainly not about to be scorned by Danarius.

He was not even in danger.

“Mage” he growled, surprised at his own voice which came out a lot less concerned than he felt. Perhaps all the hatred he had felt, all of that which was still moving around in his system, had made it into his words. Whatever the reason it did not matter at the moment.  

Carefully the warrior loosened his grip on the pained muscle before swiftly removing his arm from the other man’s torso. As soon as it was out the power of the lyrium died down and fatigue quickly overtook. Unable to support his body Fenris slumped back down; not onto cold and bloody stone floor, however, but onto the healer’s wooden table.

Shame, rage, desperation. A myriad of feelings crowded the elf’s mind and for a moment he forgot all about the mage, until a muffled moan brought the magician back into his attention.

Turning his head slightly to the side Fenris’ green eyes landed on the blond who was down on his knees, on the floor, one hand gripping at where his heart lay hidden under layers of muscle, blood and flesh. The mage was panting. His face was slightly flushed and a few strands of hair, usually neatly tied back, had fought their way loose. His chest was heaving, his breathing strained, his forehead crowned with small, shiny beads of sweat. 

Panting, moaning, sweaty, flushed… It gave Fenris all the wrong associations and he resolutely closed his eyes, shutting the mage out from his field of vision. However, the elf did not manage to keep the heat away from his cheeks. Silently he thanked the Maker that the mage was probably too busy with his own problems to notice his, rather abnormal, reaction. The elf, on the other hand, was all too aware.

As a distraction Fenris tried to think about things he hated. He tried mages first, but… that didn’t turn out quite as he desired so he moved on to mentally rage about slavers and lyrium-tattoos.  Around the time when Anders came around the elf was caught so deep in his deliberation – trying to decide what about fish was more disgusting, the smell, the taste or the feel of it – that he did not even notice until a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“You ungrateful sick bastard!!” the mage roared and the wounded warrior could feel the grip on his shoulder grow remarkably tighter. Had he been fighting fit he’d have swatted the blasted healer’s uncomfortably warm and surprisingly soft hand away the second it touched his skin, but after his little lyrium outburst Fenris did not even possess the strength to retaliate verbally. Thus the blond was free to continue his lecturing, which he did for a good while, the flood of whiny complaints flowing out of his mouth nonstop. Fenris did his best to turn a deaf ear to the mage, but it was proving hard to ignore someone standing so close and the healer’s hot breath constantly tickling and caressing his face made things no easier.

The elf dared not open his eyes.

In the end the abomination must have realized Fenris was not going offer an excuse, no matter the amount of preaching he was subjected to, and after what felt as half an eternity the mage finally released the grip on his shoulder and the stream of air against his face grew more and more distant.

The elf could hear the healer move around close by, perhaps rummaging through a box or barrel judging by the sounds he could pick up; the soft rustle of cloth, the clink of glass bottles and some other more intangible noises the warrior couldn’t quite place. Somehow these everyday sounds, and the plain knowledge of someone not posing an immediate threat to him just being there, made the slender elf feel oddly at ease despite his mangled condition; despite his company.

In a matter of minutes the mage was back at his side and Fenris could feel how an arm was forced in under his back, gently urging him to sit up. Secretly the elf had to admit that he was impressed that the mage, taking all that had happened into account, was still capable of such gentleness. Maybe it was a side-effect of being a healer; patients were patients, no matter what. Fenris, on the other hand, was sure he would not be capable of such benignancy even if he wanted to. The hatred in him burned too strong, rushing through his lyrium like a vicious power beyond all control, and whenever it found reason to lash out it most definitely would.

“Now drink your potion like a big boy, no more temper tantrums in my clinic, if you please” the mage snarled having shoved a little bottle into Fenris’ hand. Where the abomination thought he would find the strength to lift his arms the silver haired warrior couldn’t quite tell, as he barely felt he had the energy to open his eyes, but he suspected the blond could not actually care less. Then again, seeing as his only other option was asking the blasted mage to help him drink…a shudder worked its way down his spine at the bare thought of it. Fenris would never stoop so low. And somehow, with this horrific scenario burnt into mind, the elf managed to lift the bottle to his lips. The pain was unbearable at first but with every sip, with every little drop of healing liquid that slipped down his throat, it gradually began ebbing away.

Swallowing the last of the elfroot potion Fenris couldn’t say he felt fully recovered, but he had to admit that a good portion of his energy had indeed been restored. He let his green eyes slowly slide open. The light of the clinic, though dim, momentarily blinded the elf and he had to blink a few times to adjust to it. His gaze fell on the blond who was standing a few steps away, leaning heavily against a wooden pillar sipping on a drink of his own; a lyrium draught perhaps, or something completely different, Fenris was not going to ask.

The elf swung his feet down from the table, set them firmly against the dirt covered ground and, with an effort that took a good part of determination, pushed himself off the wooden surface. The world swam for a moment and all around him grew blurry, Fenris swayed and fumbled after the edge of the table with both hands so not to lose balance. Apparently big injuries did not heal in the blink of an eye, the elf mused bitterly as he did his best to keep on both feet. The thought of asking the mage for a few more potions briefly crossed his mind, but it was as quickly erased. Under no circumstances did the elf find himself willing to beg of Anders, if in dire need he could just as easily buy some on his way home.

Inhaling deeply the warrior tried to regain some of his lost stamina and when he thought he might have regained balance he decided to make a new attempt at standing unsupported. This time worked out better and he managed to stay on his feet without having to fear toppling over at any given moment, however, his vision was still haunted by a slight blur, something Fenris could only hope would be normalised with time. Sadly, though, this dimness was not effective enough to hide the smirk he spotted on the damned mage’s face, amusement at his account, no doubt, and the elf surely was in no mood of that.

He could feel how the anger started crackling and sparking in his blood; a burning, ravenous sensation that spread through his body much like a flame in a field of dry grass. Yet, Fenris could not deny that he welcomed the anger that flared up inside him. Rage was, after all, a feeling he knew well and he knew how to control and channel it; much more than what could be said about the… other feelings that tended to flick alive when around the mage lately. This, the fury, felt familiar and safe, it made him feel a lot more comfortable and at ease with himself.

 “So, you’re really not going to offer an explanation?” the spell caster asked, his irritable voice cutting through the tension filled air.

“Should I?” Fenris snarled, not too keen on letting the mage in on his delirious dreams – a secret he rather would not share with anyone, mage or no mage.

“Well, I did not expect any gratitude for saving your miserable skin, but I do think you went a bit over board there, with all that…” the mage started. Fenris could not tell whether the man was simply teasing him or if he was actually irritated, as his voice held features of both possibilities, but, he was not going to take any criticism from an abomination, that was for sure.

“I fail to see how it is any different than when you lose control over that bloody demon” the elf snapped, glaring icily at the blond.

“Spirit, Justice is a spirit” the blond replied matter-of-factly, seemingly unfazed by the look sent his way “anyhow, it’s funny how you always accuse me of losing control, because _you_ don’t even have a spirit living in you and even then you’re going crazy” the mage paused to smirk “so perhaps I shouldn’t always be the subject of your lecturing.”

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to me, mage, we are nothing alike!” Fenris spat in a voice coated with anger, and in the dim light of the clinic his green eyes almost seemed to be burning; blazing with rage.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all this before. I am so, so, so weak” a retort the mage finished off by rolling his hazel eyes.

“Weak, yes, but you are also far more arrogant than I” the elf muttered, crossing his arms.

“What?”

The surprise behind the outburst made Fenris smile maliciously; now here was the sort of reaction he had hoped for. He knew he had found a weak spot; an open sore which he didn’t hesitate to pour salt into.

“You believed yourself capable of hosting a… spirit in your body. I would never be so foolish.”

“Justice is a righteous spirit, he’d do those undeserving of revenge no harm” the blond protested, like he so often did and Fenris remained unimpressed, like as often was the case.

“So you keep saying, and perhaps the spirit is righteous, but you are only human” the elf commented dryly, taking no heed of the abomination’s arguments. He had heard them before and yet they still stood unproven and Fenris was sure they would remain so for all eternity.

“I admit my anger might affect Justice at times, but…” the mage tried, but the elf was quick to cut him short.

“And this didn’t cross your mind earlier? Or did you think yourself better than all others? That you’d succeed where others failed? That you would not turn into an abomination?” snapped the warrior, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he saw how traces of defeat worked themselves into the mage’s expression.

“I just wanted to help mages, cleans the world of unnecessary misery” the blond replied in a strained voice, his eyes now averted towards the ground. If this act was caused by embarrassment, contemplation or in an admittance of defeat Fenris could not tell but it mattered little, he was not through with torturing the mage, not yet. It had proven far too entertaining and the elf wanted to see how much and how far he could push the mage before he broke. 

“You just wanted more power” Fenris snarled, and he did not attempt to conceal the disgust that nestled its way into his voice.

“It was a mutual agreement, a way to help each other” the blond sighed and pressed his fingertips towards his forehead, rubbing it slightly. His face was wrenched into an ugly grimace and the elf wondered if the healer was simply trying to contain his anger or if this was an attempt to prevent the demon from manifesting itself.

“I see it has helped you greatly, mage.” The elf scoffed, knowing it would only spur the mage’s anger. He rested his green eyes on the Anders’ face, looking for a sign, anything that he could use to prove a point. To prove that he was right.

Sadly the spell caster seemed to refuse to give anything away, dismissing the whole ordeal, as well as the elf, with a wave of his hand.

“Get going elf, before I regret healing you”

“Oh my, did I strike a raw nerve?”

Fenris could see the mage’s face twitch and he revelled in the fact that he could cause such a reaction. It was oddly satisfying to pick on the mage, and he realized it made him feel better about himself. Perhaps it was that he felt stronger than the mage, more in control; empowered in a way he had never been. He knew where to poke and prod to cause the reaction he wanted and he enjoyed the fact that he managed to do this; that _he_ could make the mage feel this angry and upset. The more he thought of it however, the more disgusted he grew. What had at first been fun suddenly transformed to something else, because in himself, for just a moment, he had seen some elements of Danarius. It sickened him beyond explanation.

“Fenris…” the mage growled in a dangerously low tone and the warrior decided it would be better to not push the matter further. He did not want to anymore.

“Very well, point taken” the elf said and started for the heavy wooden door leading out to Darktown, suddenly in a hurry to leave all of this behind, but upon reaching it he felt he could not leave. Fenris found himself far too disturbed and unsettled by what he had discovered, what he had found in himself. That he would even be the least bit similar to the man that he hated was overwhelming in all the wrong ways. And it was this that drove him to take desperate measures.

“I… I am far from a perfect individual… However, unlike you, I am able to admit my shortcomings…”

Fenris swallowed, took a moment to think of how to continue his statement, if he wanted to say anything more at all. But he had to prove, not to the mage or anyone else, but to himself that he was not like his master. Because he was not, he could not be, nor would he ever allow himself to become, so he forced himself to go on.

“I harbour a lot of hate, too much for it to be healthy perhaps, and you should know that whatever I did was not directed at you. Not this time, at least, and for that I owe you an apology”

The words were forced and clumsily spoken, no doubt the mage could tell it was so, but Fenris had said them nonetheless.

He was out the door before Anders even had the chance to react, and too late he realised he had left both armour and weapon behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn’t supposed to be another chapter, not really. Suddenly, however, I found myself writing. So here’s a short piece from Anders’ POW.

_“I… I am far from a perfect individual… However, unlike you, I am able to admit my shortcomings… I harbour a lot of hate, too much for it to be healthy perhaps, and you should know that whatever I did was not directed at you. Not this time, at least, and for that I owe you an apology”_

The elf’s words were hopelessly stuck in Anders’ head, even hours after the warrior in question had left the clinic. The mage could not say exactly why, but he found the statement indescribably frustrating. It all felt more as a mocking of him rather than an actual apology, like something the elf only had said to yet again prove that Anders was the worse individual of the two. Not that he had expected more, it was Fenris he was dealing with after all, but the healer still couldn’t help but feel he had been unjustly treated.

Sometimes Anders just wished that the warrior would see him for what he was; a prosecuted, mistreated human being and not just a…an abomination. The constant need to prove that he was worthy of respect was slowly but surely gnawing away at both his patience and energy. Not that he needed to prove himself to the elf or anyone else for that matter, they could believe whatever they wanted, it didn’t concern Anders much or so he told himself. As long as he knew what he was doing, knew that he was in control, everything would be fine. He needn’t bother with everyone else’s opinion, and yet he was prone to seek their approval. All he wanted was a bit of acceptance and understanding, which quite frankly didn’t seem like a lot to ask for.

A sound outside his door caused Anders’ to jump and having quickly grabbed his staff he fell into a defensive position. There were footsteps and hushed conversation. A group of two persons, or three at the most, if the mage were to trust his senses, nothing he couldn’t take on if required. Whoever it might have been they seemed to have no business with the mage though, as the sounds were gone almost as quickly as they had appeared, indicating the little group had only passed his clinic. Most likely they had been scavengers or simply random thugs looking for easy prey, but there was no telling what kind of creatures lurked around Darktown, especially during the night, and the mage had learned the hard way that it was better to mistrust even that which seemed most unsuspicious.

This time it looked like he had gotten away with just a slight scare. The healer felt a little shaky though, even if nothing had happened, but at this time in his life it didn’t take much more than an incident similar to this one and he’d be on edge all day. While Anders knew his quarters were perfectly safe, he couldn’t help but to let his eyes sweep across the clinic, just to assure himself.  As expected the mage could spot no danger, however, he had caught sight of something equally unsettling. Fenris’ belongings; an eyesore to say the least.

He walked over to the elf’s equipment and looked at it for a while, thanking the Maker that he had never been made a warrior, because the scraps of metal did not look particularly comfortable to wear. Kneeling down on the dirt floor, next to the little pile of armour, Anders ran his fingers along the cold dark metal of the breastplate. It was caked in blood and thus not very smooth to the touch, but Anders imagined that had this piece of armour been newly polished it had serve him magnificently well as a mirror. He tried rubbing the russet specks a little, but to no avail, dried blood did not come off easy, not even from metal it would seem.

The blond picked up the breastplate. He turned it in his hands for a while, trying to find a clean enough spot to check his own reflection. He found none, and next thing he knew he was hurling the piece of metal across the room with an angry roar. An action that proved very satisfying and thus, without a second thought, he reached for the warrior’s gloves and repeated the process.  

When there was nothing left of the elf’s to throw around, and his need to let of steam still unfulfilled, the blond turned toward the big sword which stood resting against the wall. Anders glared at it resentfully before kicking it hard, causing the blade to fall to the floor with a dull thump. He laughed triumphantly, his only regret being that Fenris wasn’t there to see the damage done to his precious belongings because Anders was sure the warrior would have taken this as a personal insult.

As the room now held no more of Fenris’ to throw, kick or otherwise defile the rage in Anders gradually waned and instead a feeling of insufficiency assumed its place. He felt empty, raw and unsupported; like he so often had as a child.

His behaviour, too, indeed reminded him of his early days in the circle, when he had dealt with all his frustrations and worries in a similar manner. Since when had throwing things around ever solved anything? Probably never, but is seemed he still favoured this method. Things, inanimate objects, they were easy to handle. They never complained, never judged and if they broke they could be replaced. Living begins, now that was a whole other game and it was a lot more complicated as well. Cats were the only exception. Cats were good, cute and loving as they were, but apart from those wonderful creatures there was little comfort to find in this world.

Anders couldn’t recall a time had not been judged. He had been condemned for being a mage, something that was beyond his power, then he had been sent to the Circle which did nothing to improve these conditions and when he finally made his choice, took a step to make things better for mages, then he was judge more harshly than ever. It wasn’t fair. Karl had told him once that life wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t – just look at where it had landed him – but that did not mean they shouldn’t fight against the oppression with all means available, did it? He deserved, no all the mages deserved, to be treated as well as the next person and Anders couldn’t grasp how people like Fenris failed to see this. Why did he deserve less respect than Hawke or Varric or Aveline?

He slump down against a pillar.

Why he should even care so much was beyond himself; it was only Fenris after all. They had never gotten along in the first place, yet he found he was trying to prove himself capable to the elf time and time again, only to get mercilessly shot down. He did not like Fenris, and Justice most certainly did not. Anders would have gladly left the foolhardy warrior to die, but despite his best efforts to point out the benefits following this option Hawke, sadly, would have none of it. Apparently Fenris was an important companion. Anders, on the other hand, just couldn’t see what harm there would be in losing just another ignorant soul.

The mage snorted. Sometimes he just wished things were different.

He had always been alone, now more than ever. True, he had had friends and flings and such but Anders couldn’t remember ever trusting anyone wholeheartedly that is until he met Justice, and of course he was grateful for the opportunity that had been given him – a chance to annihilate injustice – but being the host of a spirit did not come without its downsides. This, if anything, guaranteed that he would surely remain alone.

No one would ever understand him. He couldn’t expect people to comprehend what it meant to share body and mind with someone else or how it felt to be constantly judged and criticised when the only thing he had ever wanted was to help. There wasn’t anyone, as far as Anders knew, who had to constantly fear letting anyone close. And, as if the constant fear of betrayal was not hard enough to deal with, he was also terrified by the prospect of that he one day might hurt someone important to him. 

Anders could not accept the fact, he would not admit it, but he knew that he was not always in control and for that he was condemned to an eternity of solitude and emotional isolation.

The healer sighed and pressed his face into his hands, concealing himself from the surrounding world.

He wanted to run, he was good at that. Run away from the responsibility, from the constant hatred and uncertainty; to run away from his future. Justice, however, had no intention of letting him escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dreamt Fenris and Anders were out in the forest picking lingonberries and nuts (or perhaps seeds from conifer cones, if those are even eatable…) last night, and this dream prompted me to continue writing about them.
> 
> Also, I think Anders is a very complex character and sometimes I find it hard to understand him… I think that the second chapter, in a way, is a reflection of that.


End file.
